A Descant

When Spring comes tripping o'er the leaAnd grasses start to meet her,The bluebird singsWith quivering wingsBrief rhapsodies to greet her,And deems—fond minstrel!—none may be,The wide world over, blithe as he.

And where the brooklet tinkles by,And the faery snowdrop dances,And windflowers frailAnd bloodroots paleLift up appealing glances,The flute-voiced meadow-lark on highSings, "None on earth is glad as I!"

Laughs Corydon, "Your hearts are bold,Yet little ye can measure,Poor, silly birds,Spring's sweetest words,Or guess at my proud pleasure,When Phyllis comes, and all the wold,For sudden joy, buds into gold!"